


Emergency Protocol

by laireshi



Category: Iron Man (Comic), Marvel 616
Genre: AI Tony, Angst, Cap_Ironman Reverse Bang Challenge, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Temporary Character Death, but not really, no Hydra Cap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 04:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11154258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: Falling in love with Tony Stark has always been easy. That he's an artificial intelligence now changes nothing. Luckily, Tony will always catch him.





	Emergency Protocol

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Аварийный протокол](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15203390) by [Leshaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leshaya/pseuds/Leshaya)



> My fic for the 2017 Cap-Iron Man Reverse Bang challenge! It's been inspired by REALLY BEAUTIFUL ART by [Cazdinal](http://cazdraws.tumblr.com/), and then she made more illustrations, because she's the best! You can see all the art [here](http://cazdraws.tumblr.com/post/161634219896/falling-in-love-with-tony-stark-has-always-been) \- go tell her how beautiful it is!
> 
> Thanks for beta and brainstorming to [runningondreams](http://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams) and [Comicsohwhyohwhy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/comicsohwhyohwhy)!
> 
> As a note, I'm not kidding with the tags, this is really very fluffy for me. Canon divergence: Civil War II happened more or less like in canon, but Steve's not Hydra.

The shield is heavy.

It’s getting heavier every day, every time Steve picks it up and thinks of Tony making it for him, always working tirelessly to protect Steve. But in the end, it was Steve who couldn’t protect Tony, and as the call comes and Steve pulls on his uniform and reaches for his shield, there’s a moment of hesitation. Is he really fit to play a hero?

But he doesn’t have anything else, he’s not ready to be Steve Rogers when Tony Stark is gone, and anyway, Tony never gave up, so Steve can’t, either.

The details of the call make something cold grab at Steve’s heart.

 _Villains outbreak, Raft prison_.

History is a circle, except not quite.

Steve inhales, exhales, straightens his back and heads out. He’s Captain America. That’s what he knows.

He goes to fight. 

***

He’s not alone at the scene. There are others: the Champions, that’s what Tony’s baby Avengers call themselves now. Sam, who’s really Captain America now. Thor. It should be okay. It’s not.

He wishes Tony were there. A new team won’t assemble here. They’ll contain the villains and then go their separate ways; nothing at all like a similar call for help at the Raft, years ago. The most important part is missing.

Steve knocks out someone breathing fire whom he doesn’t recognize, dodges Armadillo and watches Thor take him out. It’s dark, there’s smoke in the air, he moves on instinct, avoiding attacks he can barely see. The fight is definitely slowing down, though; young as they are, the Champions _are_ good. 

Steve’s on high alert still: you can never call a fight over until you’re back at home, showering the grime off your skin. 

He hears a movement in the air, and he turns around, raises his shield to block. He’s a second too slow. Someone grabs him by the arm and forcibly lifts him up. Steve twists, trying to punch with his other hand, but they’re rapidly gaining height. 

“Good bye, Captain America,” the villain cackles, and Steve recognizes Vulture. A few more seconds, and he shakes Steve off.

There’s a moment when he’s not falling, just caught up in the air for miliseconds, high enough now that the smoke no longer blocks the stars around him. It’s a beautiful night. He wants to laugh at himself for noticing that.

Then, he falls.

He tries to twist around, but there’s nothing he can do. Nothing to catch onto, nothing to slow down his fall. With the smoke in the way, there’s no one to catch him, either.

Something touches his hand. 

He looks around, but he can’t see anything in the dark, there isn’t any flier near him, and Steve doesn’t understand even as something cuts through the air next to him, fitting itself to his back. Hard metal surrounds his legs, and then finally his chest, and he doesn’t feel the biting wind anymore.

He’s turned in the air, and there’s a very familiar sound of the repulsors. 

It takes him too long to understand as a display comes to life in front of his eyes, displaying a multitude of data: he notices the altitude, his own heart rate . . .

He doesn’t do anything: he’s too shocked to even _think_ , but he can feel the armour slowing down his fall, steering him to the left. 

“Miss me?” a voice asks, and Steve shudders.

He barely notices as the armour lands on the nearby rooftop.

It’s impossible, and yet, Tony always manages to do just that. Tony caught him. Again.

Steve feels tears burning at his eyelids.

“Terribly,” he chokes out.

He inhales sharply as the armour turns him around, but then he sees why. Sam’s on the roof next to him, in a fighting stance.

“Steve?” he asks. 

“Let me out, Tony,” Steve says. Tony doesn’t reply: he just releases the armour. “Yeah,” he says to Sam.

“I was too late—I’m sorry,” Sam says, “but it seems you’re just fine.” He eyes the armour next to them. Only then does Steve notice: it’s not Iron Man, or at least not exactly. The design is clearly Tony’s, reminiscent of his last model, slimmer than the previous ones. But the colours aren’t his: they’re Steve’s, red, white, and blue; the main repulsor node surrounded by a white star.

Steve doesn’t have any explanation to offer to Sam. The only thing that he knows is this: Tony’s back, Tony’s _alive_ , and Steve can’t wait to talk to him, to see him, to hug him and never let him go.

The armour looks down from the roof. “Seems like the fight’s all wrapped up,” he says.

“Nova got Vulture,” Sam confirms. He tilts his head questioningly at the armour. “Riri . . .?” he hesitates.

“Not quite,” Tony says, but it’s wrong. Something’s off about his voice, even generated through the armour speakers. “Hi there, Sam.”

“It’s Tony,” Steve confirms, and he marvels at his own voice, how elated he sounds. It’s just two words, but they mean so much. Tony is back. Tony’s here. Steve might never get tired of reminding himself about it.

Sam’s eyes widen. “How?”

“That’s . . . something I promised Steve first,” Tony says, and there it is again. He sounds dangerously like he’s hiding something, but Steve can’t let himself think of it. “You can handle the clean-up, can’t you?” Tony directs at Sam and holds out a hand to Steve. “Steve?”

“I—” He should stay. He should help. But this is _Tony_. Back. Alive. 

Sam sighs. “Go,” he says. “I’ll take care of it. You owe me one.” He runs off the roof, his wings safely carrying him to street level.

Steve turns to Tony, expectant. “So, where are you?” he asks. “The helicarrier? The Tower?” 

There’s a moment of silence.

“Right here,” he finally says.

Steve looks around to confirm what he knows anyway: Tony is _not_ anywhere in sight. Apprehension dawns on Steve, but he tries to sound calm. “What’s going on?”

Another beat of silence, and then, “Come to the Tower,” Tony says.

“Fly me, then,” Steve challenges. 

Tony chuckles. “I could,” he says. “But it’ll be easier with you in the armour.”

Steve hesitates. Tony has a point, and Steve certainly appreciates being caught, but . . . No matter what the armour looks like, it’s not _his_. It never will be. It doesn’t fit his fighting style at all—though when Tony’s steering it, it certainly compliments it in the best way possible. And . . . He wouldn’t admit it to Tony, but being closed inside, even for a moment, _was_ slightly claustrophobic. 

Tony takes his silence for an answer, because the armour moves towards Steve. “Or I can do this,” he says, and then Iron Man’s arm is around Steve’s waist, and Steve smiles, relieved, steps on the armour’s boot. 

“Hold on tight,” Tony says, and they’re off.

The armour against his side is warm and it’s like an unspoken promise, _I’ll never let you fall_.

***

The armour flies Steve in through one of Tony’s entry vents. It’s not the most secure one, of course: that one is locked from every side, the only way in through the door inside the Tower. 

Steve stands on his own feet again and looks around eagerly. “Where are you?” he asks again. “Another lab? Tell me, I’ll go—”

“There’s no need,” Tony says. His voice is normal now, not Iron Man’s modulated one. Steve’s not sure what bothered him about the way he sounded earlier.

“Tony . . . ?” Steve asks, not bothering to hide his worry anymore. He turns around, but he’s alone in the lab, just empty tables and dark computer screens around him.

Tony sighs. Steve turns in the direction of the sound and freezes.

“What is this?” he asks. 

Tony’s not there. A _figure_ of Tony is, a holographic blue projection in the centre of the lab. 

“It’s me,” Tony says.

Steve’s not in the mood for jokes. “Okay,” he says, curtly. “But _where are you_?” This is clearly just a projection. Is Tony really on the helicarrier? Then why didn’t he take Steve there instead? Is he in space again, is that what happened, the Guardians came to help wake him up with tech beyond Earth? 

_Why did no one tell Steve_?

Tony’s face falls. “I’m here,” he repeats.

“ _What does that mean_?” Steve snaps. “You’re obviously not, Tony, what’s wrong?”

Tony puts his hands in his pockets and looks away. “It was a fail-safe project,” he mutters. “With everything going down—I wanted to be prepared.”

Steve’s shaking his head. He’s not sure what’s happening here, but he _is_ sure he doesn’t like it. 

“I uploaded my consciousness,” Tony says. He meets Steve’s eyes now. “This is me now.”

“ _No_ ,” Steve lets out. It doesn’t make any sense, he just got Tony back and Tony’s here telling him he’s . . . He’s what? _Uploaded his consciousness_? As in doing back-ups of computer data? Is this Extremis again?

“I’m like an artificial intelligence,” Tony continues. “Not exactly, but it’s a close enough description.” He looks at Steve, as if daring him to disagree, and Steve wants to, he wants to yell at the whole world and demand _his Tony_ back.

But there’s something about this . . . projection, something inherently Tony. Tony’s posture, Tony’s facial expressions, Tony’s cadence of speaking.

“Moments ago, you seemed happy,” Tony says.

“ _Is it you_?” Steve challenges. 

“How do you define a person, Steve?” he asks. “I’m here. All my thoughts, all my emotions, digitalised.”

What about Tony’s body, then? What about—everything, god, Steve has no idea where to even start asking questions. This is so beyond anything he could’ve imagined. He feels cheated, in a way: this isn’t having Tony back. Not in the way Steve wanted him, not in the way he was so certain he had him again. 

But he says he’s Tony. And he saved Steve, stopped him from falling, and isn’t that what Tony always does? This handful of moments spent talking to Tony have been so much better than anything in the last two weeks.

“What took you so long?” Steve whispers, because this is the most important question of all.

“It’s an emergency protocol, Steve,” Tony says. “You needed to need me.”

“I always need you,” Steve says, too big of a confession but he can’t hold it in. It’s not like it’s not obvious to everyone, is it? He needs Tony. Tony is his home, has been ever since the ice. Steve will never be ready to be without him. 

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Sure.”

 _That_ sounds like Tony. Never believing he might mean something to other people, to _Steve_. 

It’s not a battle Steve feels he can wage today. 

“What now?” he asks quietly, scared the answer is _I disappear again_.

Tony just shrugs, though, one-armed. “I play your friendly neighbourhood Iron Man?” he offers, then almost immediately shakes his head. “Or, well, not really. I’ll train Riri. I’ll help you.”

 _Help Steve_. “How?” Steve asks, his throat dry. 

“However you need me to,” Tony replies easily. 

_Don’t leave me again_ , Steve thinks. _Just don’t. I don’t need anything else_.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Steve says. “It’s just . . .” Unexpected. Wonderful. Weird. Different. He’s not sure.

“I’ll take that, I guess,” Tony replies, and they grin at each other.

For a moment, it’s easy.

***

Steve’s out on his morning run when he finds himself near the Tower and hesitates. He slows down near the entrance. He hadn’t realised that he was running in this direction, but he’s not exactly surprised at himself. 

_Just keep running_ , he thinks, but his body clearly has different ideas. _It’s not your home anymore_. 

But he still has the access codes. And Tony, the digital Tony, is inside. 

Steve’s in his jogging clothes and sweaty and not really presentable, but the idea is hard to shake. He could drop by. Just to say hi. See if Tony needs anything. Steve’s not even sure if he _could_ need anything, if he’s really an artificial intelligence . . . 

He goes inside, waves at the receptionist and goes to the private elevator in the back. He presses his hand against the touchpad and it flashes green with recognition.

And then Steve jumps. 

“Hi,” Tony says, his blue, see-through figure right next to Steve. 

“Tony,” Steve says. “Hi.”

“This is early,” Tony frowns. “It’s breakfast time, right. I’ve been working, not that I need food anymore. There are some advantages to this.” He gesticulates at his body. 

That’s just like Tony; spending his time on projects no matter what.

“I was just passing by,” Steve says. “I wanted to see you, though.”

“And you’re getting a breakfast out of it,” Tony repeats. “No one lives here anymore, you know, but the kitchen’s still stocked.”

The elevator chimes as they reach their destination, and Tony ushers Steve out, to the main living level of the Tower. Everything’s in meticulous order, the chairs aligned to the tables, no magazines at the coffee table, no clothes at the coat hanger. 

He wonders if Tony’s lonely. 

Tony stands in the middle of the kitchen and looks at Steve, at the fridge door, back at Steve. “Uh,” he says, passing his hand through the fridge door.

Steve forces himself not to react visibly, but something must show in his face, because Tony deflates. “It’s creepy, right. Sorry. I’m using parts of the armour when I need something, but—”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, hating to see him discomfited. “I’ll make myself an omelette.”

It should be strange. It is strange, in a way. But it’s also just right, having breakfast in the Tower with Tony, even when Steve’s just a guest here, even when Tony’s not _really_ here.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he says when he’s about to leave. 

“It’s your home,” Tony says. “Um. You know you can always call me, right? Just to talk. Or something. My number’s the same, and, well, I _am_ digital. I’ll always answer.”

It’s a simple enough offer. It feels like a lifeline.

*** 

Steve stumbles back to his flat, exhausted after a fight. An unidentified monster showed up to wreak havoc in Central Park, spitting green, stinking _goo_ everywhere. Really, Steve prefers Doctor Doom, at least the Doombots didn’t leave him feeling like he had to disinfect himself for hours. 

He takes a long, long shower, uses up half of his shower gel, and then pulls on his softest pyjamas. He figures he deserves it after _that_ day. Then he looks at his phone. If this goes wrong, he can always blame his exhaustion. He dials Tony’s number from memory and hits _call_. 

It’s not even a second before Tony’s voice speaks to his ear. “Hey there,” he says, clean and sharp as if he was standing right next to Steve. “I saw you on tv.”

“Must’ve been flattering,” Steve says.

“I don’t know, it seems like even green goo suits you,” Tony chuckles.

Steve rolls his eyes before remembering Tony can’t see him. “Easy for you to say.”

“Obviously you never tried to get it out of the armour.” 

It wasn’t really better with Steve’s old chainmail, but his new costume, designed by Tony—who else—was both resilient and easy to clean. Important parts of being a superhero and all. 

“Are you okay?” Tony asks when Steve doesn’t answer a beat too long. 

“”m fine,” Steve says. “A few bruises. Tired, though.”

“You should sleep,” Tony says. Steve tries to imagine him, frowning with worry, and smiles to himself. 

“Soon,” he promises. “I wanted to hear you. I missed you so much.” 

This time, Tony doesn’t answer immediately, and it lasts long enough that Steve sobers up. He _was_ tired, but—he should really stop saying stuff like this to Tony. “I—”

But Tony speaks again this moment. “You could move back in, if you want,” he offers. “To the Tower. It gets lonely here. I know, I know, I’m an AI, except I actually remember having a body, so—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve breathes down the line, not having to consider it at all. 

Tony, Steve, and a home; isn’t that what they always do, since the very beginning? Tony always takes him in when Steve feels adrift.

“Wonderful,” Tony says, a note of surprise in his voice. Steve doesn’t get it: did he really expect another answer? He only sounds enthusiastic when he speaks next. “I’ll send a truck tomorrow? Just bring whatever you want, or nothing at all if you’d rather, I’ll take care of the rest.”

He’s Tony. He’s really Tony. 

Steve says, “Yes,” again, and Tony laughs. 

“Good night, Steve. See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Steve agrees.

He doesn’t really sleep, too excited, but he’s not that tired anymore either.

So, Tony is comatose, but he made sure there was still a version of him in the world. And Steve is so very thankful for that.

***

Living in the Tower, even empty aside from himself and Tony, is _great_. He needs his own place, sometimes just so that he can have a space of his own to retreat to, but those apartments in New York—they’re not _home_. 

This is home, right here, a digital projection of Tony cutting fruits for Steve’s dinner, holding the cutting board and the knife with two Iron Man gauntlets.

There are _moments_ ; Steve passing Tony to get something, where he reaches out—and stops himself. He can’t touch Tony. So many times he told himself that— _he doesn’t want you this way, don’t ruin your friendship, you can’t—_ and it’s now that he just wants to hug him or pat him on the back and he literally _can’t_.

But he can talk to him. He can still make him smile. And they make it work, one way or another. Tony uses the gauntlets sometimes, and sometimes Steve just watches him, sitting at the laptop and not touching any keys, obviously focused on some algorithms and writing code. It’s similar to when he had Extremis, but not quite. Steve worried Extremis was making Tony inhuman . . . But the digital Tony is nothing if not human.

“Try this,” Tony says, raising a fresh strawberry towards Steve. Steve obediently opens his mouth and Tony carefully puts the strawberry to his lips.

The gauntlet’s finger touches his lip, just for a moment, and it’s more real than the sweet taste in his mouth. “Perfect,” Steve says, not meaning the fruit at all, and Tony beams. 

“They looked good, but I couldn’t test them,” he says, and goes back to preparing Steve’s salad.

Steve sighs, and continues with his own preparations.

***

They’re in the lab, and Steve’s reading, but his eyes are starting to droop. He frowns. If he’s that tired, with the serum, Tony must be utterly exhausted.

“It’s late,” Steve says, barely keeping in a yawn. “Go to sleep, Tony.”

He knows how it goes: Tony will protest he’s not tired and proceed to work till the morning, or maybe recite all his deadlines and ask for a cup of coffee. But none of that happens. Instead, there’s a sudden, weighed silence.

“I think sleep is the last thing I need, Steve,” Tony says finally. “In one way or the other. You, though . . .”

The realisation dawns on Steve, and suddenly he’s not quite sure what to do with himself. Embarrassed, he mutters, “I’m sorry.”

There’s another brief silence, and then Tony huffs a laugh. He extends his hand towards Steve and tips his chin up, the touch of the gauntlet cold on Steve’s skin. He wishes he could slide the gauntlet off Tony’s hand, but that’s the issue here: without remotely controlled parts of the armour, Tony wouldn’t be able to touch him at all. And the bits making his digital body don’t need rest. Steve wonders how Tony’s dealing with it, really, always being conscious, never having a moment to let his mind slow down and relax. He’s like a ghost: always here, but not.

He leans down over Steve, looking at him carefully, his touch infinitely delicate. 

“You look terrible,” he says. “Granted, that’s still great, because it’s you—ignore me—but your eyes are bloodshot and bruised and—”

“I’m getting the point,” Steve interrupts drily. Tony’s still watching his face, and it should be eerie, the way Steve can see through him—literally—and the way he’s so close that Steve should be able to feel his breath but of course can’t, and oh, _oh_ , Steve would give everything to be able to really touch him. 

But they only have this, cold gauntlet under Steve’s chin, and a moment frozen in time as Tony Stark’s digital projection leans in, never letting his eyes stray away from Steve’s—and then Tony stops, moves back, faster than he would be able to in physical body.

Steve’s reflexes are better still: he reaches out and grabs Tony’s hand in his, and it’s almost familiar, the armour under his fingers, but the way he’s holding it isn’t, more than a friendly handshake. Tony stays very still, his hand extended, fingers wrapped in Steve’s, and Steve can’t breathe, overcome with longing. 

This, this is new, new and beautiful and scary.

He loosens his grasp, not fully, but enough to send the message. _I’m not holding you if you don’t want me to_.

But Tony doesn’t back away again. 

***

Steve’s standing next to the high-tech pod hiding Tony’s body. Nothing’s changed since he was last here: Tony’s still pale and fragile, unresponsive to the outside world. Steve can’t bear to see him like this, and though he doesn’t cry now, it’s not any easier than it was before. But he had to come here and look at Tony and _think_.

He’s not sure if Tony—the other Tony, the digital Tony—knows Steve’s here. He probably monitors the vital signs of his body, and god, that still sounds so _wrong_ to think of, but as far as Steve’s aware it’s still Friday taking care of the lab security. 

Steve rests his hand on the pod. It’s warm, warmer than Steve would expect it to be, and solid, obviously built by Tony’s own hand. What was going through Tony’s mind when he created it? He probably meant it for hospitals, medical tech meant to save lives; Steve doubts even the futurist would foresee himself falling comatose.

Then again, he had apparently guessed enough to prepare and upload his consciousness. 

“I miss you, Tony,” Steve whispers and he’s immediately struck by a wave of guilt. “You’re back, in a way, and I still miss you. I’m so scared it won’t last.”

Tony can’t answer, but paradoxically looking at him helps Steve settle. Tony used Extremis before. He’d restored almost all his memories from a hard-drive once. They’ve gone through _so much_. Why would this be any different? Why does it _feel_ so different, when in a way it should be so easy? Steve _can_ talk to Tony now, so why . . . 

Of course, this is exactly why. 

Because Tony Stark is many, many things, but he’s never _easy_ , and Steve loves him, but it’s not helping anything make any more sense.

Ultimately, does it matter that the Tony Steve has now doesn’t have a body? Yes, because Steve longs to touch him; no, because he so very clearly is really Tony every way that’s important. But looking at the comatose Tony, Steve feels lost. He wants him to wake up. But it’s making his time now feel limited. Each minute more important. 

And even now, computer data is just so intangible. Anything could happen.

“I’m scared,” Steve says aloud, because that’s what it is in the end. He made a step forward and he’s so scared of the consequences he can barely breathe. _Fearless Captain America_ , indeed. 

Tony wouldn’t be scared. He’s always held his heart on his sleeve.

Tony deserves someone who wouldn’t be scared, so Steve will have to be brave.

He slowly steps away from the pod. He can do it, whatever exactly _it_ turns out to be with him and Tony as they both are now. They’re Avengers: there’s no such thing as _too weird_. 

He leaves the lab, and there, behind the doors, is Tony’s blue, digital form. 

“I don’t mind,” he says before Steve can react. “I just—I wanted to wait for you.”

“Thank you,” Steve whispers. Tony smiles at him, waves his fingers at him just long enough for Steve to notice Tony has his gauntlet on—and then Tony catches his hand and falls into step next to him.

It’s good.

***

 _You seem happier_.

Steve’s looking into his tablet, not really reading the newspaper he’s got open there, Sam’s words fresh in his mind. He _is_ happier. Happier than he’s been in years, it feels like. A part of him still feels guilty, both because _Tony is gone_ but also because _Tony’s right here and Steve should appreciate it_.

He does, though. He does.

A gentle touch on his shoulder jostles him out of his thoughts. He looks up into Tony’s blue eyes, and smiles as he realises Tony’s got his gauntlets on again.

Come to think of it, Tony _always_ has them on now, every time Steve sees him, no matter if it’s his lab or the kitchen as Steve’s preparing breakfast or in the hall as he’s greeting Steve coming back. And Steve didn’t really pay it any attention until now, absent-mindedly reaching for Tony’s hand or leaning into a touch on his arm. But Tony must’ve noticed how important it was for Steve. 

God, Steve loves him. 

“You shouldn’t huddle over reading like that,” Tony scolds him lightly. “Your shoulders are all tense.”

He digs his fingers into Steve’s shoulders as if to illustrate his point, and Steve hisses, but Tony just spreads his fingers on the both sides of Steve’s neck. “Shh,” he says soothingly, and Steve settles. 

Tony presses in, and the gauntlet feels surprisingly soft and warm against Steve’s skin. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, as Tony kneads and rubs on his muscles, clearly skilled at it. Steve sighs in relief and lets his head fall back, and Tony pauses briefly to pet his hair before resuming his working on Steve’s upper back. 

Steve’s suddenly upset he’s sitting in the sofa: it would be so much better if he was lying down on a bed, Tony over him—

The mental image is suddenly electric for very different reasons, and it’s all Steve can do not to sit up.

Tony’s hands close over Steve’s arms. “You tensed up again,” he notes. “What’s wrong?”

Steve swallows, but his mouth is dry. He chases away the thoughts of Tony touching him with his gauntleted hands in a decidedly less innocent way. “Nothing,” he says. “I love it.”

“Hmm,” Tony says, clearly disbelieving. “I did make new gauntlets—see, they’re thinner than the armour ones, finer motor control and all—but somehow I don’t think that’s the issue here.”

Tony knows him too well.

Then again, Tony is also an AI, and Steve’s not actually sure he _can’t_ monitor Steve’s vitals. The armour could do that. Steve never minded that, but . . . 

“I do like them,” he lets out quickly, and resolves to let Tony make out of it what he will.

“Mmm. Good,” Tony says, and Steve’s not sure if he imagines it or if his voice is laced with promise. 

Then Tony starts the massage again, and Steve focuses on his touch and nothing else.

***

“CSI,” Steve says.

“Grey’s Anatomy,” Tony replies. 

They eye each other over the kitchen table. Steve thinks it’s easier for Tony: Steve’s not translucent, after all. But Steve’s not about to give up this fight. 

“CSI,” he repeats.

Tony’s reply is cut in half through the microwave beeping. Steve beams at him and reaches for his popcorn. He pours it from the paper bag into the biggest bowl he can find, and before Tony can react, dashes for the living room.

Tony’s digital form is sitting on the sofa already. 

“That’s cheating,” Steve pouts.

Tony sighs. “I know,” he says. “So I won’t actually fight you for the remote. I _could_ change the channel with my mind, you know.”

Steve sets the bowl down. “But you won’t.”

“I won’t,” Tony agrees, then looks up at Steve. “But do you really want to refuse me my show?” he asks, blinking rapidly, and really, his lashes have no business being that long when it’s just a projection—

Steve crosses his arms. “You’re playing dirty.”

“Captain America, refusing me my only pleasure in life,” Tony says dramatically.

“You won’t guilt me,” Steve says. 

“Fine,” Tony says. “I hope you enjoy causing me suffering, Steve, I really do—”

“Shut up,” Steve says fondly. “You don’t hate it half as much as you pretend to.”

Tony laughs. “Okay. I don’t. But next week is my turn.”

“Deal,” Steve says and settles next to Tony, looking for his hand automatically. Tony’s armoured fingers find his mid-way between them.

Tony lets out an exasperated sigh as Steve reaches for the remote with his free hand, but his fingers only close tighter around Steve’s.

It’s good.

***

They end up watching TV well into the night, and then Steve yawns. Tony pokes him in the arm playfully.

“You should sleep, old man.”

“Yeah,” Steve concedes. He gets up and goes to his room, gets ready for bed. He knows Tony will be waiting in his bedroom, to say _sweet dreams_ and turn the lights off for him.

But when he steps out of the bathroom, Tony’s nowhere to be seen, and Steve’s unsure, “Good night?” remains unanswered.

Riri must be needing all of Tony’s attention, Steve realises, just a bit wistful he hadn’t exchanged _good nights_ with Tony earlier. It’s just nice to begin and end his day with Tony.

They’ll have tomorrow, though. And every day after that.

Steve sleeps.

***

Steve wakes up, asleep to fully conscious in a second like he always does. The light’s streaming in through the windows, so Steve glances at his phone—it’s 7:30 AM, he really went to bed late—and goes to splash his face with cold water. He leaves his room and then looks around.

“Tony?” he calls.

He’s only greeted with silence. He frowns. That’s weird. Tony can multitask like no one else on a good day, and more so now. Sure, he’s disappeared on Steve before when Riri needed him, but never for this long. Not without any kind of message.

It’s just one night, Steve tells himself. He doesn’t need Tony holding his hand twenty four seven. (He kinda does). Everything’s fine and he’s just fretting for no reason.

But _why_ isn’t Tony talking to him?

Steve eats a lonely breakfast, walks around the corridors, calls Tony’s name and doesn’t get a reply.

He could go down to the lab and ask Friday what the problem is. But what if Tony just wanted some peace of mind? Maybe Steve was being overbearing. 

He decides to go on his morning run. He takes his comms with him, just in case, but no one tries to contact him as he’s jogging through the streets of New York. It’s later than usual, so he has to dodge more pedestrians, and ends up annoyed at himself, for oversleeping and worrying for what surely is no reason; at Tony for making him worried in the first place.

He returns to the Tower, and no one’s waiting for him.

That’s okay. Steve’s used to being on his own.

He grabs his sketchbook and a pencil case and takes the elevator up. If nothing else, he can distract himself with art. The sunlight is soft, making it possible for him to sit on the roof of the Tower and look over the cityscape of New York. 

He faces away from the Baxter Building and begins to draw.

He’s barely managed to sketch the most basic shapes when there’s a familiar, whirring sound, and Iron Man lands next to him.

Steve looks up, grinning. It’s his armour, theoretically, but he wants to think Tony chose it because he missed Steve too, wherever it was that he disappeared to. 

“Long time no see,” Steve says.

Tony doesn’t answer.

Steve looks at him closer, but it’s not as if there’s a physical person in the armour to let Steve read the body language. 

“Tony?” he asks.

“Pathetic,” Tony snarls, and it’s only years of experience that make Steve roll away in time, no matter how much everything in him _aches_ at the words.

Tony’s repulsors miss him by a hairbreadth. Steve’s heart rate picks up.

It obviously _isn’t_ Tony controlling the armour. 

“Where is he?” Steve demands, getting up. He doesn’t have his shield, he doesn’t even have his uniform, but that’s okay. He doesn’t need them. He’ll figure it out. 

“I’m right here,” the armour says, but it can’t be true. “I just can’t believe I wasted all this time on _you_.”

It’s _not_ Tony, Steve tells himself firmly, but his stomach lurches. 

It’s what Steve worried about earlier, isn’t it? It’s so easy to erase computer data.

So easy to take control of it, too.

How does Steve save Tony when he’s an artificial intelligence? That’s so far outside his abilities. 

The armour fires at him again, and Steve dodges to his left, right, left again; the repulsors rain at him fast. Steve curses himself for leaving his comms inside, and he moves away from the line of fire and tries to plan a way out. 

First order of business, he must get back inside. That way, he’ll be able to start an alarm and call for back-up, and the Iron Man armour will have less manoeuvring space. He tries to move towards the door to the emergency stair case, but repulsor fire blocks him. 

Steve jumps away, but immediately starts moving again. Iron Man flies towards him, and Steve leans to the side away from another shot, and then raises his forearm to block a punch.

The force of it sends him several metres back, pain ringing through his wrist, and Steve would be surprised if he had the time for it: he _has_ fought Iron Man before, much as he hates it, and this strength wasn’t there—

He runs in zig zags, avoiding more attacks, and then Iron Man closes the distance again and kicks him in the midriff. Steve manages to cross his arms in front of himself in time to block it, but the momentum sends him back—

He falls.

The Tower is 93 stories high, he remembers, as tears run to his eyes and wind whistles around him. Iron Man is looking down on him, flying at the roof level, becoming smaller with each second.

There’s no one to catch Steve, now.

He lets his eyes close.

The impact knocks the air out of his lungs, but it’s—not what he expected, there’s a hand under his arm and another holding him around the chest, and Steve opens his eyes to see the familiar, red and gold armour holding him safe.

“Riri . . . ?” he asks, even though he recognizes the armour and knows it’s not _hers_. But it can’t be anyone else anymore.

“I’d feel insulted you don’t recognize me,” Iron Man says, “except under the circumstances you can be excused.”

 _No_. Steve won’t let himself hope. He can’t do that again.

Iron Man sets Steve down gently at the street level. “Wait,” he orders. “This will be over soon.” And without another word, he flies back up.

 _Wait_ , as if. Steve runs inside the Tower, calling the elevator. He mashes the alarm button as it ascends, inputting the code switching it from _elevator maintenance_ to _Avengers alert_ , and then the elevator beeps and Steve runs out, crosses the corridor to his room and grabs his shield.

Then he runs to the roof once again.

Iron Man, the red and gold one, is standing there, the red, white and blue armour strewn in pieces around him. 

Bile rises in Steve’s throat. He can’t speak.

Iron Man looks at him, and Steve’s not sure if he wants him to take off his faceplate now, or never do that at all.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Iron Man says. He takes off his helmet. Steve has to fight to keep his eyes on him and not to run away. He inhales sharply.

It’s Tony. Real, flesh and blood Tony; slightly pale, but his eyes are the familiar warm blue, and his hair is slightly too long, flapping in the wind.

But—the digital Tony Steve spent all this time with. He’s real too. 

His eyes are burning. “Tony?”

“Yeah.”

It’s everything Steve’s dreamt of, but there’s a sudden sense of loss, too. “And—the other you, Tony, the artificial intelligence?” It feels so wrong to call him just an AI.

Tony looks down. “He’s gone,” he says quietly. 

Hysterical laugh bubbles up in Steve’s chest. He’s got Tony back, except he’s lost Tony, too, and he doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know how to react. A part of him wants nothing else than to run to Tony and hug him and touch his cheek and feel he’s real. 

A part of him is thinking of a pair of gauntlets on an intangible body.

He’s saved by someone else landing—yet another Iron Man armour, but smaller: Steve recognizes Ironheart. 

“Tony?” she says. “But how—what happened? My suit went haywire, and—”

Tony tears his eyes from Steve and checks her over immediately, and then more Avengers arrive, responding to Steve’s alarm call, and more, until finally someone forces Tony into a quinjet and a med check-up and Steve’s left on the roof, alone save for Sam.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

Steve nods mutely. Both his arms hurt, but he knows they’re just bruised, and that will heal soon enough.

The armour is still in pieces on the roof.

“Steve,” Sam says.

“I’m okay,” Steve replies. “Really.” He wants to be alone. He wants to be with Tony. He kneels down, and starts gathering the broken armour into a pile. He can’t deal with it lying around like that in disarray, like a broken body that no one cared enough about to cover. “You can leave me here.”

Sam hesitates.

“I’ll call you,” Steve says. “Please, Sam.”

There’s another long moment, but then Sam nods tersely and flies away.

Steve clutches at the armour pieces, finding a gauntlet and touching it desperately. There’s no one to control it, no one to make the fingers wrap around Steve’s anymore.

He curls up around it. His eyes are burning, but he doesn’t let himself cry. Tony’s back, isn’t he? Steve’s okay. Why wouldn’t he be?

Later, he makes sure to bring all the pieces inside. He has to go back and forth three times to carry them all, and at the end, he’s left with the one gauntlet. He can’t make himself put it away with the rest. Tony will probably ask, but—

God, Steve can’t do it. 

He locks himself in his bedroom, sits down against the wall, the gauntlet in his lap, hand pressed firmly against his eyelids.

He’s okay. He is.

***

Someone’s knocking at his door. He knows immediately it’s Tony, a sort of certainty deep in his gut.

Steve must be presenting a truly pathetic picture right now. He forces himself to stand up and put the gauntlet on his night table. It’s only slightly better than clutching it like a lifeline, he thinks, and hopes Tony won’t notice.

As if.

Tony notices everything.

Steve’s not a coward, he tells himself, and opens the door. The sight of Tony standing there in casual clothes is striking. His goatee is vague and irregular, and his hair is still damp as if fresh from shower, but it’s Tony, in jeans and a Resilient t-shirt. Steve’s not sure if he should laugh or cry at how fitting the name of the company looks over Tony’s heart.

Before saying anything, Tony pushes a tablet at Steve.

Steve takes it, because it’s easier than _talking_ , and looks at the screen.

 _May 15th, Anthony Edward Stark, medical analysis_.

“What’s that?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs, rocking on the balls of his feet. “To prove I’m me right at the start?” he offers. “Okay, it’s not the full tests, they’ll do those tomorrow—I wanted to talk to you first—but the basics are here.”

“I’d think a Skrull you would be smart enough to falsify the records,” Steve says, setting the tablet aside. 

“Point,” Tony says. He looks away. “I—” He falters, looks back to Steve as if for guidance. “God, you look terrible,” are his next words.

“Says the man freshly out of a coma.”

“Says the man who clearly hadn’t been in a hand-to-hand fight with an Iron Man suit,” Tony corrects.

That would be just like him, only just back, and thinking of Steve already. As if nothing changed.

“Okay. Okay. I—we—we need to talk—that sounds foreboding, but you know what I mean,” Tony says, and Steve’s not quite sure of that. “But first,” Tony continues, “you, shower. Put on clothes that aren’t shredded. I’d ask you to get checked out, but I know what you’ll say.”

Steve looks down at himself. Tony’s right, he notices with some surprise. His sleeves are all but gone, revealing his forearms. The bruises are dark purple. They hurt, but it’s distant. Steve thinks he might be in shock. 

Tony’s right, though. He has to clean up and change and—and—he’s so not ready to talk to Tony.

He might be even less ready to let Tony out of his sight now, he realises as he nods and yet can’t make himself move.

“You’re back,” he says stupidly.

“I’m back,” Tony replies carefully.

Steve raises his hand, wants to reach out and touch Tony. He snatches it back immediately. 

It’s not the same Tony who gave him a back rub and held his hand. 

Inexplicably, it’s Tony who seems to have come to some sort of decision and is now stepping towards Steve. His hand on Steve’s is soft and warm and _human_. 

“I’m back,” he repeats, squeezing Steve’s hand once, and then he steps away again. 

“Thank you,” Steve whispers. “I—wait for me in the lab, will you?” He’s not sure he can have any sort of a conversation with Tony right here in his bedroom. He needs space. He needs somewhere to retreat to. 

Tony seems to catch his meaning and nods quickly. “Sure. Um, you might want to avoid the living room; there seems to be a party. Word travels fast and all that.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Steve says, and then Tony nods again and leaves him alone.

Steve slides a hand down his face.

Tony’s back. He’s here, he’s really here, and apparently the first thing he did was to rush through his medical exam and come back to Steve, ignoring his own _welcome back party_. He still looked tired but acted energetic, a far cry from how he was at the end, fighting Carol. He’s more similar to Steve’s Tony, full of life and smiles. 

But that Tony is gone.

Steve can’t stay here, thinking in circles, and he’s also pretty sure that if he takes too long, Tony will come back up again. He strips off his ruined clothes and goes to shower.

***

Tony’s poking at a motherboard with a tiny screwdriver when Steve gets to his lab. Steve can’t say if he’s actually working or just wants to keep his hands busy. The sight of him still hits Steve right in the solar plexus: a Tony in full technicolor, solid, no longer a ghost. 

Tony looks up when he hears Steve’s footsteps and smiles lightly before his face turns serious again. “I realised I maybe should’ve led with something else, upstairs,” he says, and before Steve can ask, he continues, “I remember.”

 _What_.

“You remember,” Steve repeats, and he’s not sure if it’s hope or terror he feels.

“The artificial intelligence version of me? I uploaded my consciousness just in case something happened. A security protocol, if you will. But contrary to the popular opinion, I _can_ learn from past mistakes. So. I remember. He’s gone, but—I’m him. Until the last night, at least.”

All air leaves Steve. He leans on the table, heavily. “What happened?”

“Remember the tech ninjas I fought in Japan?”

The time Tony pretended to be dead for _three months_. Before he got knocked into a coma. Yes, Steve remembers. 

“Yes,” he says.

“Their leader could control tech to some degree. She went after me again. I think that’s what woke me up—that the link to the AI got broken.” Tony bites on his lip. “And then you were falling, and—”

“And you caught me,” Steve says. “Again.” _Always_.

And Tony _remembers_.

“I _am_ him,” Tony repeats. “As he was me. Everything—everything he did and said, Steve. That’s all me.”

He stands up, walks around the table to Steve. “I know this might be weird for you right now,” Tony says. “But I need to say it, Steve. I love you.” 

Steve thinks he’s crying, but it’s not important. He crosses the rest of the distance between them and pulls Tony into a tight embrace. It’s heady, to be able to _really_ touch him, all of him. Tony’s strong muscles and sharp angles and he fits against Steve just _right_ , his body heat emanating through his t-shirt. 

“I love you,” Steve finally says aloud, and clings to Tony for dear life. 

Tony never lets him go.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with equally fluffy porn coda [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11219370)!


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